


ain’t no rest for the wicked

by thatcolossalwreck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:40:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatcolossalwreck/pseuds/thatcolossalwreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha retires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. never in your wildest dreams

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd; mistakes are mine

It was appropriate, Maria supposes, that Natasha had decided to retire _here_. In a way, it’s exactly the statement Natasha would make: She would be at the opposite extreme of her beginnings—not the winters of Russia, something warmer, something hotter, somewhere she can languidly walk the beaches and forget the fact that Clint was shot in the heart in a cabin in the vast tundra of Russia while he was on the trail of 2R, a mission Maria would have been on if it were not the fact that she had broken her ribs in an earlier op in Greenland.

Natasha doesn’t blame her, she knows. But Maria had wished she did, because then Maria would have reason to feel the weight in her chest, to pause and purse her lips when Clint’s name flashes on the plaque SHIELD had dedicated to the fallen. Maria wishes Natasha had blamed her, so that she could carry some of her sorrow. Maria feels cheated. Like she was granted amnesty. Like Natasha let it slide.

Her SHIELD uniform clings tightly onto her skin, beads of sweat sliding down Maria’s neck, and she has never exactly liked the heat—has hated her missions to Iraq and Afghanistan, loved the prevalence of missions in Serbia. The sun is too bright here; Maria squints even with her shades, and the men next to her bristle in the heat. They make a statement, the lot of them. Locals and tourists turn their head to stare, and she wishes they were more inconspicuous, because if locals and tourists see them, Natasha had known they were coming since they stepped onto the jet.

 _Let her know_ , Maria decides, because secrecy and surprise has always alerted the widow, brings up a level of suspicion that they cannot afford. Maria knows this because Maria was an associate Natasha had respected, was almost something more before a bullet found its way to Clint, and in all of that resulting chaos, in that unending fall of dominos that Maria sometimes wishes she was able to foresee, Natasha had enough.

 _I’m done_ , Natasha had told her in a broken whisper, and Maria had merely nodded, because Natasha was done. Anyone could see that. Clint’s death broke her. Maria was not someone who could bring her back together. But she had not tried.

 

/

When they reach the bar, Maria stops to stare. A broken little thing, nothing worse compared to the things she’s seen in other parts of the world, but it’s old, cracks littering the wooden structure, greasy windows, worn tables and chairs in the front. She can barely make out Natasha’s silhouette through the grease, but from what she can see, Natasha is hunched over, in a loose tank top that hangs off her shoulders, and fingers clutch at a fruity drink. Maria raises an eyebrow. Natasha drinks scotch and vodka, brandy and whisky. Drinks with little umbrellas are not something Maria has ever been privy to see. _It’s been too long_ , Maria thinks. People change in a span of five years, don’t they? Maria does not know. High school ends in four, West Point ends in four. SHIELD has lasted longer, but her comrades have not had the same fate. Natasha, Fury, and Clint are—and were—the lucky ones.

Maria shifts her head to the right, says, “Alright, boys. There she is.” She takes a step, puts a hand on the beaten door; it’s warm, under the sun. “Don’t draw your weapons—Natasha— _Romanov_ is _not_ the enemy.” Natasha’s reputation has fallen since her retirement, words ranging from _weak_ to _broken_ , and Maria has done her best, but the words only stop in her presence, persists in the absence of it.

The men she has brought with her are new. Experienced veterans are not needed for a mission like this, but they are easily impressionable; Maria does not know what words have managed to penetrate their brains, but she will not allow ignorance to be the cause of Natasha’s potential antagonism. She eyes the men with something of a warning. They look back at her nervously, as if they knew what Natasha _was_ , but aren’t sure of who she is now, even if she did have Maria’s good words.

When Maria pushes open the door, her hears are met with a soft ring. Her eyes scan the room for potential exits and threats before she settles onto Natasha’s frame, where she sips her drink— _she’s almost serene_ , Maria thinks. _But dangerous_. Natasha is still the Black Widow, no matter her active status; it is an identity branded onto her. Maria does not understand the sudden knot in her stomach, or the way her heart speeds up. Natasha is not the enemy. Nor is Maria hers.

But the guilt of Clint’s death clings onto her like a second skin, something she cannot wash off, and Maria wishes Natasha had done something, those five years ago—punched her, yelled, screamed, _something_ so that Maria could feel her penance, or any small amount of it, paid. Maria has taken some steps of her own. She doesn’t sleep much now, not that she ever did; she eats less; she feels a constant weight on her chest, like her guilt has constricted itself around her, keeping her from dragging in a breath.

 _Shake it off, shake it off_ , she repeats like a mantra in her head. It’s gotten her through West Point, through Iraq back when she was still a newly commissioned soldier, through SHIELD training where she’s watched other potentials drop like flies.

“Agent Romanov,” she says when she is three feet away from her, and Natasha’s head merely bobs up, her eyes sharp in recognition.

Natasha sits up and throws an arm over the spine of her chair.

“It’s no longer Agent, _Commander_ Hill.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I’m retired.”

Maria feels the tips of her lips curve up in a smirk. The men next to her huff.

She brings an arm to wipe the bead of sweat off her forehead.

Natasha doesn’t miss it, her eyes following the motion before she smirks and says, “Not a fan of the heat?”

“Not particularly,” Maria mumbles before she snaps her head to her shoulder. “Give me and Romanov some space. Wait outside.” Her voice is always hard when she gives her commands.

The men break into a sharp salute before slouching again and opening the door, the soft chime littering Maria’s ears once again. Once the men are gone, Maria deflates and drags herself onto the seat opposite of Natasha.

“What is it?” Natasha asks with a sharp edge to her tone. Her eyes are hard, and they shine a lighter shade of green in the sunlight.

Maria looks to her left, out the window before she speaks, eyeing the way locals and tourists relax and surf the waves, the ocean a blue that reminds Maria of the time she had first set eyes on the uniform SHIELD had issued her.

“ _Maria_ ,” Natasha nearly growls out. “Why are you here?”

 _This is your retirement, I know_ , Maria thinks. She says, “We need your help, Romanov.”

“I’m do—”

“I know you’ve retired,” Maria interrupts her. “I know. And I’m sorry.” A pause. “I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t absolutely need you.” Maria brings her hand up to rub her temples.

She feels Natasha’s hand come up to gently pry her hand away. Maria looks up.

“What is it, Maria?”

Maria gives her a look, an infinite amount of something coursing through her veins, something cold and hot at once, and Maria doesn’t know if she wants to curl her feet into the sand or dunk her head into ice water. She doesn’t know if she’s doing the right thing, springing this onto Natasha, but these are her decisions, her choices, and her regrets, so Maria swallows the uncertainty and the guilt, pulls it tight into a knot that seems to tighten around her shoulders and says, “We found 2R. We found the bastards that killed Clint.”


	2. all my words were bound to fail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa, chapter 2. this is new for me, too. enjoy!

                Natasha does not make a move, does not even flinch.

_Please,_ Maria thinks, _please give me some words_.

                But the sun’s rays take whatever words Natasha tries to speak, and in its place, she runs her glittering eyes over Maria’s lips. A silence ensues; Maria makes no move. She had learned five years ago that Natasha is more wolf than spider: She stalks her prey, growls at the slightest move. Trust was something they were just building; now lying as a forgotten castle gathering dust as Clint’s heart burst. Maria has forgotten the extent of its construction, if they had gone past the foundations to the point of its architecture resembling a castle, or whether all laid down was bricks and a ratty blueprint faded in its edges of promises. So Maria waits, because if Natasha is a wolf, then Maria is another, and she will not run at the slightest touch.

                Finally Natasha speaks, and her words are light, dancing in the air like the dust does in the sun.

                “What is it that you want?”

                Maria lets her eyes drop and watches the way Natasha’s hand is still. Natasha had never had signs of weakness, of anything except confidence and surety, and sometimes mirth.

                “I think it’s obvious,” Maria speaks out, her voice keeping a timbre of nonchalance.

                Natasha’s stare is serious, and in it, Maria picks something else up, a flash of regret and something darker, but it’s buried under lighter signs of challenge and remorse, and Maria thinks Natasha is talking about something else, something like an order she should have given five years ago, when she says, “Then just say the words, Commander.”

                For once, Maria listens. But her timing’s off. It’s always been off.

                “I need you, Natasha.”

                Natasha’s lips quirk, and that’s always been what Maria’s always needed; it has been the only thing Natasha had been able to give her.

 

/

 

                When they finally land onto the Helicarrier, Maria tilts her head to the side and says, “I wonder if you’ll feel it.” It being the first stroke of awe—the wonderment of stepping across a ship that can fly, the coil of tension in the bottom of her stomach as one fights the lightness that comes with watching the ship spread its wings and ascend into the clouds, like the first burst of sparks of falling in love.

                Natasha quirks up an eyebrow and says, “Probably not—but I hope so.”

 

/

 

                Natasha takes a tentative step forward, and she fights the impulse to grab Maria’s arm for balance, so instead takes in a deep breath and straightens her spine. It works, just like the way it did in another life: one where she was a ballerina and the nerves she felt before performing were the only nerves she had felt—none about a mission failing, of Clint dying, of Maria staying.

                Natasha stops a few steps behind her as she scans the floor of agents rushing about, of several languages being shouted across the floor, and Natasha can understand most of them. She knows Maria can, too, by the way she turns her head to inspect several ongoing assignments, and the way she narrows her eyes at the French being spoken: _La veuve noire!_

_Black Widow_ , the small voice in Natasha translates. черная вдова, the heart in her says. _Is that still you?_ the accusing voice in her head questions.

 

/

 

                Natasha takes a few days to settle in.

                “Take your time,” Maria almost whispers by how quiet she says it. (Natasha thinks the presences of junior agents warrant the subtlety, because a declaration like that—and one might actually think Maria _soft_.) “2R will not be going anywhere any time soon.”

                Natasha had wanted to know how she had known that. 2R had fled their radar since Clint’s death; they are masters as much as she and Maria are masters. This confidence, this assurance, Natasha wants to question it, but the quiet order Maria is giving her halts the question about to leave her lips. _It’s odd_ , Natasha thinks as her gaze holds Maria’s, _that she’s the one now giving me orders_. Their previous acquaintance had dealt like a cat-and-mouse game, of Maria giving chase and Natasha smiling coyly as she ducked into the crevices of her web. _Le chasseur ,_ Natasha smirks. She remembers when she had once called Maria that.

               

_“Hunter?” Maria questioned when the words slipped Natasha’s lips._ _“I’m the hunter?”_

_“_ Mais oui _,” Natasha smirked. “Or would you rather_ un chat?”

_Maria slightly frowned and said, “_ Le chasseur, s’il vous plaît.”

 

                “Tasha?” Maria lets the old name slip, and nearly flushes, but she’s SHIELD Commander Maria Hill, so she only averts her eyes for a second. “Did you hear me?”

                Natasha shakes off the old memories, of things that had made her smile in private before everything went wrong and Clint was shot, and says, “Perfectly, Commander.”

 

/

 

                In her new room, Natasha places everything she had brought with her: a compass and pictures. She keeps the pictures in her tin box and hides it behind her pillow. She’s almost surprised to find a knife there, too, but smirks because she knew Maria had put it there as an unspoken term of comfort. Natasha often wonders how Maria knew that she’d kept a weapon besides her at all times, and she remembers that she’s not the only soldier.

                The compass she keeps on her persons. After Clint’s death, she had needed to know where she was heading, even if into the abyss.

 

/

 

                A knock sounds from her door, but it’s customary. Maria has access to every room on board, is not obligated because of rank and power to officially announce her arrival. But she does it anyway, and Natasha stands to attention, back straight, arms to the seams of her uniform, eyes staring straight ahead.

                Maria’s lips twitch in an almost smirk.

                “You’re mocking me.”

                “ _Never_ , Commander,” Natasha dishes back. She almost wants to put a special emphasis on the word commander, too, but Maria has earned her rank and position, and even in jest, Natasha feels a certain wrongness in mocking it.

                “At ease,” Maria says in her official tone, but then her voice turns softer, and she says, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

                Natasha relaxes and tilts her head to the side, studies the way Maria finally lets her shoulders fall as her voice loses its sharpness, sees the way there’s dark circles under her eyes, and how Maria’s gait is awkward, stiff, and something powerful but violent. _I need to relearn you,_ Natasha decides.

                “Things have changed, Maria.”

                Maria almost stops short at the truth. They had never really spoken the truth around each other, but flirted along the realms of lies and half-truths and puzzles. What had they been? An emerging foundation? Or were they dust that danced in the wind, where they had somehow found a home among its chaos. It fills her with an unfathomable sadness, as if events five years ago had meant less than she had thought they’d been. As if someone broke her ribs again and whispered _What a fool you were. She left because you were supposed to die—but then Clint did. Have you admitted it to yourself yet? Your incompetence took her best friend; your incompetence nearly took you._

                Maria meets her eyes, hopes Natasha doesn’t see the sorrow in them and fights against the voice whispering her truths in her head, and says, “Yes—but you have never been my lesser.”

                This way, Maria understands why Natasha left.

                Natasha needed an equal, or someone even greater—no matter how hard one like that would be to find—and the closest had been Clint. There was nothing to hold Natasha here after his death. The sharp pain in her chest is enough to make Maria avert her gaze to the wall, as she finds that the guilt she’d been ignoring for five years comes rushing back, pulling every strand of muscle tense. If only she had not broken her ribs, Clint would be here. And Natasha would have stayed.

                Natasha’s voice, light and stabbing, as if she had wanted to make sure Maria felt her words more than she’d felt her pain, breaks through Maria’s haze, “You were never my lesser either.”

                _Lies_ , Maria thinks. _Lies._

**Author's Note:**

> there will be more!!
> 
> i can't guarantee when, though!


End file.
